


Jungle Youth

by wajjs



Series: jason todd in songs [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: He can’t say his mournings. He can’t bury him or anyone or feel for their loss. All there’s left is survival.
Series: jason todd in songs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725541
Kudos: 14





	Jungle Youth

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first ficlet I did for a personal challenge I made for myself in which I spell out Jason Todd with song titles :-D
> 
> (Basically: I start writing with no previous idea, taking direct inspiration from the feeling the song gives me, or from the song lyrics)

**J** ungle Youth

Dirt kicks up in thick clouds by his sides, he doesn’t slow down, never slows down even though he doesn’t quite feel the wind. He drives south, that’s all that he knows, all that is clear, and he drives like he’s being chased by all his regrets, all his mistakes - like this is his only chance at getting rid of them for good, to say goodbye, see you never, our time here is done. Hell, that might even be true, as true as things can be in an ever changing existence within a world turned upside down.

The rumbling between his legs is strong enough to wake the dead. He leans forward, into the handlebars, picks up speed, the last drop of it left for him to take. Behind he leaves a trail perturbed dry soil. Even further behind, a city up in flames. 

No one stops him. There is no one that matters for him to be stopped. It’s funny, with the decaying fields at his sides, with the wastelands that go on and on forever; it’s funny that no matter how fast he moves his chest feels heavy with dread and denial. Denial that he was left here alone. Denial that he might be starting to miss his grave. Denial that even such a thing is truly and fully gone.

With his helmet on, his face is protected from the wind and the debris rising up in fumes around him. Through all of that, an undeniable buzzing sound, a body breaking through the clouds and disrupting air.

It crashes a couple of meters in front of him, gives him barely enough time to swerve and avoid colliding with it, skipping to a full stop sideways not too far after driving past it. His heart raises up to his throat, hammers away in there, makes him want to throw up and only his years of training save him from doing that.

There, in the middle of the abandoned road, right there in broad daylight: a distorted mass of kevlar and black, form broken and twisted. Son of a fucker must’ve taken the body from all that pile of destruction and tears. Even with all his reckless driving, he was still too slow. He’s been found.

“Fuck,” he whispers and it’s almost reverential because even though it hurts worse than dying, he has to admire just how methodical this mayhem is. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and his hands shake as he loads them with the few bullets he has left, the special ones he made when it all began, before his survival abilities proved to be just a tad better than everyone else’s. 

His chances to win are minimal. If not basically zero. And just when he had finally found a clue to follow. A hint of tentative hope. Someone who could fight by his side. He’s even on his way to them. This is unfair. This is so unfair.

“Red Hood,” comes a voice booming from the sky with no one that follows it. He feels distinctly like he’s prey in a jungle of decay and waste, knowing that the predator is nearby and that they don’t feel like eating him alive. Not yet. Sweat slides down his neck, follows the line of his spine, makes his dirty tshirt stick to his skin. “Surrender. There is nowhere to go.”

“Yeah,” staring at the twisted form of whose symbol he’s still wearing, he makes his bike roar once. He’s never run out of the defiance of his youth. “Thanks,” he says, swallows once, “but no thanks.”

He can’t say his mournings. He can’t bury him or anyone or feel for their loss. All there’s left is survival. All there’s left is himself, hopefully a couple of hard to kill bastards, and an army of overpowered assholes right at his back, chasing him.

This might be his last chance at doing something right.


End file.
